by Diane Noble
Ricki paused as she pulled out a sheet of paper. “Now I’m going to read the names of the prepaid guests who are signed up for the spa. If there are any errors—if you signed up and I don’t read your name—raise your hand.”
Then she proceeded to read the list, which was surprisingly short. Strange, Adam Hartsfield was listed. So was Harry Easton. Ricki seemed embarrassed as she read his name and corrected herself immediately. I wouldn’t have expected either Harry or Adam to be a spa kind of guy. My antennae zoomed high. The only students staying at La Vida Pura were those I had talked to at breakfast—Kate Rivers, Max Pribble, Price Alexander, and Zoë Shire. Also listed were my dinner companions, the Browns, the Doyles, and the Quilps.
Ricki got to the M’s but didn’t read my name. The image of me in full yoga attire flashed into my head, and I considered letting the error stand. After a moment of arguing with myself, I waggled my fingers halfheartedly.
Ricki noted the correction, then looked out at the crowd. “Any questions before I tell you more about what we’ll see at the butterfly farm?”
A hand shot up in the back of the room. When Ricki nodded in that direction, I turned. It was Kate Rivers. She stood and cleared her throat. “Is it safe for us to get off the boat?”
Ricki raised an eyebrow. “Safe? How do you mean?”
“Well, with Mr. Easton dying and all? It just makes me wonder …”
“Wonder what?”
Kate was picking up speed. “It occurs to me that we might have a murder on our hands? And if that’s the case, no one should be allowed to get off the ship. The perp might still be onboard.”
The perp? She sounded like she was trying out for a part on CSI. Ricki must have thought so too. She leaned toward the microphone. “Whoa. You’re jumping to some pretty serious conclusions.”
Kate shrugged and sat down. Price gave her a high-five for her performance, and she grinned.
That was when Captain Richter strode to the podium, tapped the microphone, and cleared his throat.
“I want to assure you all that we are investigating Mr. Easton’s death. As you have probably heard, the ship’s doctor judged that he died from natural causes. We have no evidence to believe otherwise. None of you is in any danger. But this brings me to another point …”
He spent five minutes reviewing safety procedures—the need to watch out for one another, to travel in groups, and to keep an eye out for unsavory characters who might be lurking about.
Several students snickered at that and called out each other’s names as examples of unsavory characters. They had suddenly regressed to junior high. I knew the symptoms; I’d seen it before.
“Another item of possible concern,” Richter said, “is the whereabouts of Carly Lowe.”
The students fell silent.
“Members of my crew are currently inspecting the ship to see if she is onboard, though at this time my bet is that she missed the ship in Parisima. Just as many others before her have done, she’ll no doubt catch up with us via canal boat. But I wanted to take this opportunity to ask you if you’ve seen Carly since the shore excursion yesterday.”
No one spoke up.
Richter glanced at me and shrugged. “Seems not,” he said, looking toward the students again. “But do us all a favor, okay? Watch for her in town. She knows our itinerary and will probably show up sometime today. According to your dean and others, she’s a smart young woman and can take care of herself.” He scanned the room. “Got it?”
There were murmurs of agreement, and he left the lectern to Ricki.
“Now, let’s get back to what we’ll see in the tropical rain forest,” Ricki said as she pulled out a chart.
As soon as the lecture concluded, I headed for my stateroom at a trot, put enough food and water in the feeders to last Gus for two days, and added fresh sand to the litter box. Before I slathered on sunscreen, I adjusted my ball cap, picked up Gus and rubbed my face against his whiskered jowl. His innards rumbled into a purr. “Hey, bud, you be good while I’m gone, you hear?”
I thought he did, but then you never know with cats. He squirmed from my arms and hopped down and turned around until he found just the right spot to face me in a classic sphinx pose, his big yellow eyes unblinking. His tabby markings were distinctive—gray, black, and white with touches of rust. He sported a black necklace that looked like it held a half star in place at the center of his white throat and face stripes that included Elizabeth-Taylor-as-Cleopatra eyeliner.
“You know I’ll be back, bud. Meanwhile, you’re on bug patrol.” I blinked back a sting of tears. Hollis had said the same thing to Gus that last morning.
A half hour later I headed to the bridge for an update on the search for Carly, only to hear the disappointing news that the search hadn’t turned up a trace of her. She simply wasn’t onboard.
Fighting off my concern, I trudged toward the gangway on deck one, amidships. Zoë appeared at the bottom of the stairs as I descended and looked up as if she was waiting for me. She was dressed in ratty jeans, a T-shirt, and flip-flops. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, and a frayed backpack sagged from her shoulders.
“Shouldn’t you wear sturdier shoes for this outing?” I pictured insects the size of armadillos drawing a bead on those bare little toes.
A hint of a smile lit her eyes. She seemed to appreciate someone caring. “It’s all I brought. I hadn’t planned to get off the ship that much.” She brightened slightly. “Besides, this is the tropics. I thought these would be fine.” She looked down at the worn rubber thongs.
I sighed. “Just watch out for bugs.”
She frowned. “I put on bug spray. They won’t bother me.”
I drew her to one side before joining the knot of passengers stuck at a standstill on the gangway. Up ahead a crew member was helping them, one at a time, into a mustard yellow tender. Some passengers had already boarded and rounded a little spiral staircase and were sitting on the open-air top deck.
“Hey, Zoë,” I said. “Did Carly ever mention an interest in paramilitary groups … or fringe groups of any kind? Religious cults, anything like that?”
She studied me for a few seconds, her expression blank. “The only group I can see Carly joining would be an excursion to a Kate Spade factory outlet.”
I couldn’t help smiling. “You know her well.”
She didn’t smile with me. “I don’t know her at all.” There was sarcasm in her voice.
“Seriously,” I said, “was there any hint that she planned to leave the ship on purpose?”
She shook her head, then surprised me by touching my hand. “I’m being too hard on Carly with the Kate Spade thing. You’re right. She’s the type to take off on a whim—maybe for a romantic encounter of some kind. Or for a guy. Maybe for some exotically romantic group.” She gave me a rare smile. “If the uniform is stylish enough, I could see her joining a weird paramilitary group. She once told me she’d love to be on the cover of Women & Guns.”
Women & Guns? Carly? I mulled this over while we stood in line to board the tender. If she was involved in some such a thing, I only hoped that she would come to her senses before we left Playa Negra. I wanted to see her literally leap off that canal boat.
As soon as I was helped aboard, I headed to the top deck. Zoë shadowed me every step of the way. I went to a narrow metal bench near the railing-encircled bow. Zoë scooted in beside me on my left. I looked across the deck and saw Adam between two chatty women. One was Adele Quilp. He wore a pained expression.
He caught my eye and grinned. The chink in his tough-guy armor surprised me. I smiled back.
The pilot revved the little craft’s engines, turned in a slow circle, then headed to shore. As we drew closer to land, I noticed a surprising number of small yachts anchored among the dilapidated fishing vessels. One supersize yacht, a gleaming white motored craft, towered above the others. Across its stern, elegant scrolled lettering spelled out Sea Wolf. It flew an American flag.
&n
bsp; Even after we chugged by, I craned to see more. Adam stood and sauntered toward me, grabbing the railing to keep his balance. He fixed his gaze on the magnificent ship. “I’d say it’s about a hundred footer, runs at speeds up to twenty-five knots, has a crew of twelve or so, maybe a dozen luxurious staterooms, state-of-the-art galley. Gourmet, of course.” The wind riffled his hair, blowing a tuft of it off his forehead. He looked years younger than he had onboard the Sun Spirit.
I stood and moved to stand beside him. “You know your yachts.”
“Always dreamed of getting one. Never could on a cop’s salary.”
“She’s a beauty.”
“If it were me, I’d have chosen a sailer.” When I gave him a quizzical look, he explained. “Primarily powered by the wind, but with auxiliary motors in the event you need them. Can’t beat the beauty of those towering sails.” He squinted at the Sea Wolf as we moved away from her. “But then if I were sailing long distances, I’d probably go for the motored yacht.” The American flag was fluttering and snapping in the wind. “Whoever owns her traveled a long ways to take the waters at La Vida Pura.”
“My thoughts exactly,” I said. I wondered if a love of the open seas had prompted Adam to take this adventure cruise. He didn’t strike me as the type who would go for a party ship that flitted up and down the Mexican Riviera or for that matter, a luxury liner that sailed the Med. I turned to ask him why he had decided on the Sun Spirit cruise, but my attention was diverted as the tender neared a ramshackle building at the end of a sagging wharf.
The captain of our small craft eased back on the throttle, and we glided closer. A crew member on the lower deck lassoed a post and pulled the tender to a standstill. Then he jumped to the wharf and fastened the stern with a second rope. The passengers queued near the gangway and within minutes stepped onto solid ground.
As soon as I was on the wharf, I looked around for Carly.
As if reading my mind, Jean Baptiste appeared at my elbow. “I don’t see her.”
“I really was hoping she’d be here.”
He strode across the wharf to one of the uniformed officers and spoke to him in Spanish. I followed. After their brief conversation, Jean turned to me. “He says the water taxis from the south have been delayed because of canal work. They will resume later today. Or maybe tomorrow.” He shrugged. “There is definitely a mañana culture here. I’m sorry.”
Zoë stood nearby, watching our exchange, her gray eyes wide. Perhaps because she was an outsider among her peers, she had decided to cling to me. Every time I turned around, she was at my elbow, listening quietly. It was hard not to be annoyed; it was harder still to ignore a young woman without friends.
“Hey, kiddo.” I draped my arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. “Wanna hang out with me? I could use the company.”
She nodded eagerly.
A group of students had gathered as they awaited the tour bus. Jean was standing just to my left. He glanced at Zoë, a slight frown creasing his forehead as his gaze lingered a bit too long on her face. The look she gave him in return seemed almost arrogant.
I was puzzled by the silent exchange and dropped my arm to peer at the girl, wondering if I had been mistaken about what had passed between them. But my thoughts were interrupted when a sleek black car pulled up and stopped at the Playa Negra end of the wharf. It parked immediately behind a white stretch limo.
“Ah, my ride,” Jean said. I wondered which car he meant.
“So, Baptiste, you gonna drive to your island?” Max Pribble guffawed and looked around for an audience.
He found one.
Price Alexander sniggered. Kate Rivers giggled. Others joined in. The adults rolled their eyes, except for Adele Quilp, who said, “Hunh.” Only Zoë remained silent and aloof, her expression pinched.
Jean laughed with the others. “Just heading to the airport, my friends. I’ll ‘drive’ home from there. Before I go, I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for your attentiveness this week. I hope you’ve enjoyed the lectures and gained knowledge from them as well. The other professors and I have been impressed by the caliber of students this time out. You are incredibly talented, even gifted, people. You can make a difference in this world—through whatever field of science you pursue. We need more people like you with the passion to make things happen, with the desire to remove any obstacles that might block you from achieving your dreams.”
The students broke into applause. Although Max, Price, and others in their circle played the empty-headed jocks, I’d seen them poring over their books while we were at sea. I’d also been impressed with the snatches of more serious conversations I’d picked up.
Jean smiled and nodded his thanks. Then he stepped again to my side and steered me slightly away from the group. “If you need to get in touch with me”—he pulled a business card from his jacket pocket—“I’m a phone call away. I can get to the mainland in a matter of hours. Please promise me you’ll call tomorrow and let me know about Carly.” He wrote a number on the back of the card. “My cell,” he said, then handed the card to me.
I tucked it into one of the myriad pockets in my vest and thanked him again. He stepped into the waiting car, nodded to his driver, and was gone. I was pleased the limo wasn’t his.
I turned and headed for the waiting bus, Zoë again at my elbow. Just before we boarded, loud voices caught my attention. I looked back to the wharf. A smaller craft had just pulled up alongside the Sun Spirit tender, and its captain was shouting for the tender to get out of the way.
It was a curious development. The smaller vessel’s captain obviously thought he had priority status. I stepped closer. Adam appeared beside me. “I should have known,” he muttered, his focus on the altercation.
“Should have known what?”
“It’s the owner of the Sea Wolf.”
“The one doing the shouting?”
“Oh no. He leaves that kind of unpleasant detail for others. He’s sitting in back.”
I moved to one side to get a better view, away from a cluster of Sun Spirit passengers lining up to board the bus. Even above their chatter, I could still hear the shouts of the two captains.
Then I spotted him—the multibillionaire whose photograph had dominated all forms of media for the past decade, from the Wall Street Journal to Entertainment Tonight, from the Economist to People magazine.
Lorenzo Nolan.
The woman next to him, Elsa Johannsen, was reportedly in his sights as wife number four. I recognized her from the news accounts of the engagement soiree that Nolan had thrown in his Manhattan penthouse, with a guest list that had included the president of the United States, a half dozen influential senators and congressmen, plus European politicians and royals.
Not that I pay much attention to such rubbish. But I do read People magazine when I’m getting my roots tinted.
Nolan’s small tender had now reached the wharf, and the man himself was moving toward the makeshift gangway, bodyguards nervously scanning the knots of tourists nearby. Elsa wobbled behind him in heels too high to easily navigate the worn, uneven wharf. She was beautiful. Even from this distance I could see her gleaming, sun-streaked hair, pulled into a knot at the base of her neck, and her elegant movements as she stepped onto the wharf. She was every inch the Scandinavian businesswoman I’d read about. Albeit, Scandinavian businesswoman on vacation. She was dressed in a white, gauzy skirt and blouse; a mix of shell-like pastel stones and thin golden chains graced her neck and dangled from her ears. Her transparent sunglasses screamed designer label. She was tall, towering a good two inches over Lorenzo. Now that she was on solid ground, she walked with feline grace. Even without the visual cues of Lorenzo, her fiancé, at her side or the white stretch limo by the wharf, she utterly oozed money and power.
Not wanting to confirm the drenched-in-DEET aura I oozed, I resisted a glance down at the knobby knees just below the hem of my Bermuda shorts, the sturdy walking shoes and knee socks, and the Velcro-po
cketed vest that sagged around my middle. The logo ball cap was my crowning glory.
I was still thinking about God’s system of distributing genes and dreams when a movement at the back of Nolan’s tender caught my attention.
A third member of their party was now being helped to the gangway. A child. In a wheelchair. A heavyset, gray-haired woman, perhaps a nanny or a nurse, hovered nearby as two crew members lifted the chair onto the ramp, then wheeled it toward the waiting Lorenzo and Elsa.
Within a few moments the entire party was whisked into the limo by their attentive bodyguards, and the vehicle glided away, darkened windows shutting out voyeurs like me.
A low whistle escaped Adam’s lips. “Now, that was something to see.”
“So you think the Sea Wolf belongs to Nolan?”
He nodded. “I would bet on it. I should have made the connection when we spotted her.”
“What do you mean?” We turned and walked to the bus. The last of the passengers were boarding just ahead of us.
“Nolan owns La Vida Pura.”
I stopped dead in my tracks and frowned up at him. “I researched the spa before I left home. That never came up.”
“He likes to keep his connection to the place low profile. Big-name world figures fly in and out of here regularly.” He stood back as I hoisted myself onto the bottom step of the tour bus, just inside the door. “I think he tries to protect their identities.”
The bus was idling with the air conditioning on arctic blast. I shivered as I reached the top step and looked down the aisle. Toward the back, Zoë held up a hand and motioned that she had saved me a seat. I stifled a groan and headed toward her, Adam following. There was an empty seat on the other side of the aisle. He sat down, half-facing me as I settled into my seat.
“He craves media attention,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Why should this be any different than the sordid details of his life that he parades before the media in the States?”